Part Thirteen: Kids these Days

Then, one frozen midwinter morning, the aftermath finally made itself known. As the headmaster made his customary early-morning walk amongst the river of boys struggling down the corridors, he heard a small voice from the vague direction of his knees. “Who are you?” said a small, puzzled-looking boy who was staring up at him. “The most important man in this school,” said the head, rather amused by this interjection. The boy definitely wasn’t new, but he was probably a skiver who never went to lessons long enough to know any teachers. “Why do you ask?” “You don’t look very important!” said the boy, obviously unimpressed. “You’re far too old!” The head was in a jovial mood, so he gamely ignored this comment. “Are you deaf as well?” asked the boy impatiently. Again, the head pretended not to hear. “I hope they’re not all as deaf and boring as you,” said the boy. “I don’t like you.” The head was not a patient man at the best of times, but now he was more than a little furious. In one enormous sweep, he brought his hand down to the side of the boy’s head with the trademark sound that accompanied it... ...crash! That didn’t sound good. The head reeled around to find that it wasn’t good at all. There was a rather large hole in the wall where there quite blatantly hadn’t been before, with a rather confused boy on the other side of it who had quite blatantly not expected to be there. Still, the head thought, at least he was alive... He was alive? That was impossible! No-one could survive a blow that powerful. He looked at his own hand. No-one could deliver a blow that powerful. Something wasn’t right. Leaving the bemused boy to clean himself up and try to explain what had happened to the other teachers; he set off towards the car park.

BEAM Robotics: Innovation on a Shoestring

Here's the situation: You're an amateur electronics enthusiast, and you've had a sudden irrepressible urge to build something awesome. Something that moves, something that thinks, something that feeds, something that lives. In other words, a robot.

But there's a snag. From what you've seen on television and read in the news, most robotics projects take many months of work - years, even - and obscene amounts of funding just to get off the ground. You don't have that kind of money, or enough spare time. You could buy a robot kit from a hobby shop, but it wouldn't offer nearly as much satisfaction as starting from scratch and you wouldn't actually learn anything.

That's where BEAM robotics comes in. Invented by Mark Tilden, BEAM uses only basic electronic components such as transistors, capacitors, diodes and resistors to achieve complex behaviour traditionally associated with custom processors and lengthy programs. In fact, the only 'unusual' parts that turn up are voltage detectors and some assorted ICs.

The amount of BEAM information on the internet is a little limited, and many of the sites on the subject that do exist are quite old, but there are plenty of tutorials and explanations nonetheless. Here are some places I have found useful:

• Solarbotics.net - A site offering lots of information on every aspect of BEAM. Features a circuit library, detailed descriptions of how it all works, and a gallery of robots. Any BEAM enthusiasts wanting web hosting can get their own site here as well.
• BEAM Online - Calling itself 'The Yahoo of BEAM', this site offers a great portal into the world of BEAM. There are plenty of pictures and snippets of information available, and a few links to other helpful sites too.
• Solarbotics Ltd. - A popular BEAM parts vendor, stocking all manner of components and kits. Although I've never bought from them (and, assuming I don't move to America, never will), many BEAMers recommend them should you be having trouble finding what you need. They provide the web space for Solarbotics.net, which explains the similarities between their names.

If you've ever felt the need to dominate the world with mechanical monstrosities but aren't prepared to fork out very much for the privilege, then these sites are for you. Happy BEAMing!

P.S: Eton starts tomorrow... aaaaargh!

Part Twelve: Magic Moments

The inspector sighed. It had been a long day.
Of all the things he had learnt during his training, dealing with malevolent magical forces had definitely not been amongst them. Not, of course, that it was something officers of the law were expected to come across even in the most extreme of circumstances. But, nevertheless, it was undoubtedly magic. The forensic teams had confirmed a complete absence of human presence and, as far as the scientists could ascertain, no known or theoretical substance could be capable of such powerful or vivid hallucinogenic capabilities.1
Besides, the Orb was giving off a suspicious blue glow. Actually, it was more of a force field, and a good one at that. They had been trying all day to penetrate it, but to no avail. Truncheons had bounced off it harmlessly. Bullets had made a little difference, but they couldn’t fire them quickly enough. The hand grenades had been rather spectacular but had done no good, although PC Filk did seem rather pleased with his extra limbs. Unless they destroyed the school, there was no way they could get through that force field. Just as he was pondering over his remaining options, a boy rushed up to him.
“Mr Inspector, sir!” he said, panting. “The PC says come quick, there's something wrong!” He ran off, beckoning to the inspector to come. The inspector followed, dreading what might have happened. When he arrived outside the cupboard he found PC Filk desperately trying to keep the door shut with as many hands as possible.
“The field's getting stronger!” he shouted over the noise coming from the cupboard. “I can't hold on for much longer!” The inspector looked around in panic. There was quite a gathering of nervous staff and pupils by now, and the collective feeling seemed to be the perfect thing for the Orb to feed off. He tried to persuade them to leave, but they were all too engrossed in their own fear to pay any attention. What could he do? Any moment now that thing would go off and...
Of course! That was it! Taking a deep breath, he threw his head back and bellowed.
“IT'S GONNA BLOW!”
Like an impromptu conjuring trick, the entire crowd disappeared in a flash. Unfortunately, the flash had come from the orb. In a sudden blast the entire school became encased in a hemisphere of blue light. It seared in the sky for what seemed like an age. Then, without warning, it vanished. A slight shock wave swept silently outwards, having no ill effect but to knock over a few unsuspecting cows. When the policemen finally summoned up the courage to return to the cupboard, they found the Orb sitting nonchalantly on a table.2 It allowed itself to be removed to a high-security facility, leaving behind absolutely no damage whatsoever apart from a few shattered nerves and a bundle of classified documents. The school was allowed to resume its normal activities, with instructions to report any strange happenings immediately. Luckily, none occurred.
And that, so it was thought, was that.

Part Eleven: A startling discovery

When the head woke that afternoon, all the dizzy ecstasy of that brief moment had been drained from him. Happiness, he thought as he slowly regained consciousness, was like alcohol. It was nice for a while, but if you had too much of it all at once you ended up with one heck of a hangover the next morning. Slowly he sat up, groping for any sturdy objects in roughly the direction he was trying to head. He was in his study, and on the desk was a newspaper that he realised he hadn’t yet read. Picking it up, he surveyed it with half-hearted interest.1 Most of the news was of the usual dismal nature and none of it very eye-catching. They say no news is good news, thought the head gloomily. That would explain why all the news is so awful. Just to illustrate his point to the world in general, he picked a few articles at random:
Graffiti on derelict building, Vandalism levels soar, Dog eats postman, Hamster spontaneously combusts, Local scientists predict Armageddon, Museum reports theft of unidentified artefact…
This last item struck him as odd. He read on:
Mossam Museum yesterday revealed that one of its more mysterious artefacts had been stolen. The object, known to museum staff as ‘The Orb’, is a small pyramid in which is embedded a sphere. Research into the inscriptions on the object has so far proven fruitless, but historians believe it to be cursed. No information is yet known about the material from which it is made, but it appears to consist of a silvery metal of great strength. Anyone knowing the whereabouts of the item is requested to report the matter to the Mossam police station.
Mossam police? Weren't they the ones trying to sort out the mess at the school? And a curse. Hallucinations didn't just, well, happen, did they? The pieces of the puzzle all seemed to be fitting together quite nicely. He would have to tell the police about this, although the prospect of facing up to the inspector again was less than inviting. Mind you, the prospect of having to face up to this damned curse for the rest of his school career was even less inviting. Against all his previous intuition, he went out in search of the inspector.
“So,” said the inspector, who was more than a little suspicious about the headmaster’s new-found talent for deduction, “you think it's not so much a case of who done it as what done it?”
“Even better,” replied the head, who was – in contrast to the inspector – feeling more than a little smug about his triumph over modern policing techniques. “I know what done it, ahem, did it.”
“What?” queried the inspector, his suspicion becoming curiosity. “Any clues are better than none.”
“Well,” whispered the head conspiratorially, leaning in towards the policeman. His smugness tank, having overflowed ages ago, was now spreading havoc around the rest of his brain, especially his common sense, “you know that museum robbery you're dealing with?”
“I most certainly do sir,” confirmed the inspector, now deeply puzzled by this latest non sequitur. “But what has it to do with the murders?”
“Why everything, my good chap!” slurred the head, the smugness having attacked the speech centres of his brain. “This orb you're searching for is the doer of the dones that have been done by the doer of the dones!”
The policeman regarded him quizzically.
“Are you feeling all right, sir?” he asked, looking rather worried. He had stacks of policing duties as it was, without having to deal with a lunatic teacher. “You don't look too good.”
The head's primitive instinct of one-upmanship suddenly kicked in with a vengeance. He wasn't going to ruin it all now, just as he had the advantage! Hurriedly, he straightened up and tried to look knowledgeable.
“Of course I am, man!” he retorted. “Never been better! Anyway,” he continued, putting on a more serious note, “the curse contained within that orb is the cause of all this,”
“What makes you say that, sir?” questioned the policeman warily. The head then proceeded to recount his incident in the janitor's cupboard. At the end, the inspector looked thoughtful for a moment before speaking.
“So, you think there's an accursed relic in the cupboard that's picking everybody off one by one?”
“That's no way to talk about the jan…” began the head, before realising what the inspector meant. “I mean, exactly! You must remove it immediately!”
The inspector sighed. It was going to be a long day.

Leaver's projects

To fully appreciate this post, you might want to take a look at this other post. Or then again, you might not.

When faced with nothing, make something. This, I'm pretty sure, is the general idea behind the Leaver's projects. The school having done so much for you, you do something for them. Generally, this is something practical: maintenance of golf tees, for instance; however, creative and organisational tasks are also open to the less technically adept. The possibilities are, proverbially speaking, endless, although there are some projects that tend to crop up periodically. There has, for example, been a tradition of making sculptures out of musical instruments for display in the Music School, and for contact purposes a Leaver's address book is essential.

Talking of which, I must email some of my friends, if only so they know I actually have an email address. Some slight problems led to it not being included in the address book, so hopefully a quick message will set the record straight. I can only hope they're not all too busy trying to find my non-existent Facebook account. That's if they've got a copy of the book with my contact details in it at all, that is. Did I say slight problems? I meant big ones, though most likely on my part. My form-filling ability must be deteriorating.

School's out!

Wooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooohoooooooooooooo! The Summer Holidays are here!

So, where's the sun?

For the benefit of my international (i.e. non-English) readers, I think it's worth mentioning that the weather in the UK is a little inclement at the moment.* However, this does give me an excuse to write this post, if I actually needed one in the first place.

So, what work have I been doing in the last few weeks of term? Not much, as a matter of fact.

I know. Criminal, isn't it?

Cast your mind back, however, to this post. Loath as I am to bring the matter to your attention yet again, you may remember that I had gained a scholarship to Eton College, which in most respects made any large amount of work a little pointless. Far from being my situation alone, however, this affected six others of my general category, not to mention a further 22 to come later on. But what, with no mean amount of time at our disposal and our lessons judiciously cut back upon, were we to do?

Before I embark upon the full, excruciating detail of recent happenings, however, it is worth making some important clarifications regarding the description gobbledegook given above.

• Me and the 28 others** are all in Year 8, in other words 13 years old (again, I can't vouch for this being true in countries other than my own). This was our last year at prep school.
• All the year 8's (and indeed the rest of the school, for that matter) are boys.
• The overwhelming majority of them - or rather us - are at least a little excitable, and needless to say this trait has been exploited to its full potential.
• The official name for us, should you ever come across it, is the Leavers.

Rather than tell you everything in one long, ultra-boring blob of a post, however, I'll split it up for you. First stop, the Leaver's projects!

* It should be noted that, due to the ongoing nature of the writing of blog posts, the time referred to as 'the moment' at one point may no longer be anywhere near the time at which the post is published. As it stands, the 'moment' referred to in the part of the post so handily marked with an asterisk was some time yesterday, with today being when this footnote was written. At least for the moment, anyway.

** I know a number of people who would most likely kill me for saying this rather than: 'The 28 others and I.' But be honest, which do you think sounds better?

My favourite: Simulations

About four months ago, you may remember me saying this:

One-off spurts of fun and stuff are all very interesting, but maybe a little series of posts would be nice?

Now, approximately one third of a year later, I've finally managed to mop up enough creative juices to write the second part of the 'My favourite' series. Sorry for the long wait, but hopefully anyone out there with the same interests as me will agree with my choices.

A challenge often tackled by computer scientists is the imitation - or simulation - of various real-life phenomena. It's a subject that interests me, and so here I list some internet gems that I have found recently on the subject of simulation.

Boids

Flocking birds exhibit some of the most organised behaviour in the animal kingdom, and yet they have no leader. It turns out that each bird uses simple rules to coordinate themselves with their neighbours, leading to an overall consensus as to the direction and speed of the flock. In 1986, Craig Reynolds came up with an algorithm that imitated flocking behaviour using simple computerised creatures called Boids. The Boids program I have linked to in the title is not as fancy-looking as some of the others I have seen, but in my opinion it has a much cleaner feel and many more variables to twiddle with.

Note: If you have even a moderately good processor, the simulation will probably be running far too fast to watch properly. If you set 'Refresh delay in ms' to something higher, it should be easier on your eyes.

The Game of Life

Note: For a little background info on Conway's Game of Life, try the Wikipedia article linked to in the title, or my post on the subject.

In actual fact, the Game of Life doesn't really simulate anything very convincingly, but it is a very important concept in terms of semi-chaotic behaviour. Many different structures can be implemented using it, from simple patterns that cycle around indefinitely to more complex arrangements capable of creating other objects or even themselves. Even watching the results of a random arrangement of cells can be fascinating, as well as demonstrating Life's chaotic unwillingness to settle down. If you're really keen, there's even a Game of Life pattern for a Turing machine.

Gravitee

Despite actually being a game (and having a pretty cheesy title), Gravitee is a fairly convincing imitation of Newtonian gravity. Basically it's a golf game, but interplanetary, and when you hit the ball you find it obeys all the laws of physics you might reasonably expect it to. Obviously you would need billions of pounds in funding and a pretty hefty launcher to play this sort of game in real life, but otherwise the science is sound. Moreover, it's great fun to play.

I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me now while I play another round of Gravitee golf, but I'll be back soon. Tune in next time!

Part Ten: It's all in the head

Later, when all the staff had dispersed reluctantly to their lessons, the headmaster had his usual patrol of the main building. It was mainly to distract him from the pressure of running the whole anarchic establishment that was the school, but it also gave him a chance to hunt down any skivers. The head was not greatly keen on blood sports, but he knew a skiver when he hit one. As he trudged along, he suddenly heard a loud crash from the other end of the corridor. He broke into a jog, gradually gaining speed until it became a run. Still the crashing continued, and it was getting louder by the second. The noise appeared to be coming from the janitor’s cupboard, known to be the favourite haunt of lesson-dodging pupils. Although it was called a cupboard, it also doubled up as the janitor’s miniature home from home and was considerably roomy. Coming to a halt outside the door, the headmaster rolled up his sleeve and prepared to enter. “Right then!” he bellowed as he strode through the door. “Who is responsible for…?” Suddenly the room seemed to sway around him. Colours swirled and faded, and there was a general feeling of warmth and fuzziness in the vicinity. Small fish flitted among huge purple trees on gossamer wings; two-tonne ducks dabbled upside down in a floating orange lake and with a sigh the head passed out on a bed of soft black mushrooms. Well, at least he wouldn’t have to go to the school council meeting.

All is revealed...

On Tuesday 6th May, in case you were wondering, the Eton King's Scholarship exams took place.

Now, I know perfectly well what you're thinking. You're thinking: 'What on earth is he talking about? Has he finally flipped? Has his blog been taken over by the Eton College ICT Department resident hackers? Has he come up with some stunning piece of wit on the subject of the Scholarship exams? Or has he (heaven forbid) taken to advertising?

You'll probably be pleased to hear that none of these could be further from the truth (although the advertising idea certainly sounds tempting). The simple, straightforward and several orders of magnitude less exciting answer is that I took the exams. I sat down in a hall with around 100 other people and took some tests. See, I told you it wasn't a very exciting answer.

The more interesting - and indeed fortuitous - part, however, is that I passed. The results were pretty good - in at least one case (I'm not telling you which) surprisingly so - and I somehow managed to grab 4th Scholarship.

So what about the title? 'All is revealed..'? What, you are thinking, does that mean? Nothing's been revealed. Or has it..?

Well, I suppose I'll have to tell you now. Getting an Eton Scholarship was the ultimate aim of my secret plan, despite the fact that it was neither very secret nor much of a plan. But you can't be picky with these things.

So now you know it all, and a very good thing that is too. But I think I'd better cut this post short before it gets too heavy and unwieldy, or possibly before I get unbearably smug, whichever is the sooner. Until we meet again, Adios!

All Quiet...

Well, here we all are again. Much changed since I've been gone?

I'd like to be able to say I haven't had the time to post recently, but really I've just been a bit stuck. Hopefully I can try and unstick myself briefly. (Fine, so 'unstick' isn't a word. But it ought to be.)

What's the time? 18:55. Which actually makes it 19:54, since my clock is 59 minutes slow. Twenty-two hours and six minutes until finally my grand master plan reaches its climax. Wow. Oh, er, give me a second...

[Brief interlude for picking-up grandparent.]

Sorry about that, my grandmother arrived. Where was I? Oh yes, my secret plan...

What do you mean, 'What secret plan'? The secret plan! You know! Ok, so maybe you don't. Well, I mentioned it here a little while back if you're interested. Not that I really described it in much detail (although isn't that the point of a secret?).

But anyway, now you know all about the secret plan (figuratively speaking) I suppose it's worth moving on to more pressing matters. Like cellular automata.

So, hands up all those who've heard of cellular automata. If you haven't got your hand up, then perhaps you'd like to use it to click on this link to the Wikipedia article on the subject. If you want the definition in a nutshell, imagine you have a sheet of squared paper and colour in some of the squares (although usually they're called 'cells'). Then imagine you have another sheet and, by applying certain rules to the first sheet, create a new pattern of squares. That's a cellular automaton.

Take Life, for instance. That's 'Life' with a capital 'L', by the way. Formally known as Conway's Game of Life, Life is probably the most widespread cellular automaton around. Part mess, part beauty, Life has deceptively simple rules:

1. Cells can be in one of two states, alive or dead.
2. If a cell is dead and has exactly three neighbours - either horizontally, vertically or diagonally - that are alive, it will become alive the next time the pattern is redrawn.
3. If a cell is alive and has either two or three neighbours that are alive, it will stay alive when the pattern is next redrawn. Otherwise, it will die.

Are you following all this so far? Good, you'll need to be...

The Game of Life is barely the beginning, though. For a wide selection of interesting rule possibilities and an easy way of tying them out, Windows users can try Mirek's Cellebration. If you've got a Mac, I haven't found very much for you except Golly, which nevertheless has plenty of Game of Life patterns to keep you entertained.

Well, I'm afraid that's all for now. My secret plan beckons!

Deja vu (again)

Phew! Where does all the time go? Sorry I haven't posted in millennia, I've
been largely occupied with the final stage of my secret plan. What secret
plan, you ask? Ah, well that'll have to be a secret a little longer. But I
digress...
This morning a thought struck me, which is rather ironic considering it was
to do with all the other thoughts that strike me so often. The gist of the
matter is that I appear to have a remarkable, if distinctly annoying,
propensity to realise things that, actually, I had already realised not long
beforehand. In other words, realisation déjà vu.
If you're still confused - and judging by my general shortcomings in coherent
ability, I wouldn't blame you - a case in point is my examination technique.
Let me run you through it:
1. Receive exam.
2. Do first few questions. Pretty easy.
3. Look at questions coming up, and see that they're very difficult.
4. Panic and stall.
As techniques go, it's pretty bad, but that's not the point. The point is
that every time it happens I treat it as an utterly new revelation. I never,
ever, ever, ever, EVER think to myself: 'Hmm, I'm sure I've realised this
before.' And the thing is, it happens all the time, with everything I do.
When I do something I do often, I always think: 'Well I sure do this a lot.'
Always. Without fail. I know afterwards what I've done, but it doesn't stop
me.
So remember, be very careful with what you think. You just might not be able
to stop thinking it. Hmm, I'm sure I've told you that before...

Let it snow!

Would you believe it? More snow! Where's it all coming from? Just in case you need proof, I've provided some photos. There's also some pics of my recent visit to Chedworth Roman villa. A small but exquisite section of the mosaic found at the villa. Some of the remaining walls, still in surprisingly good condition. Footprints in the snow (sorry this is not rotated!) My rather inappropriate choice of footwear.

April Fool!

This being the day of jokes, tricks and other such tomfoolery, I think I may as well write a little about this year's festivities as far as I am aware of them. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the fun!

• Flying Penguins: This BBC documentary preview dispels the common myth that penguins are incapable of aviation. Who would have thought it?
• Gmail custom time: Make your emails arrive whenever you like. Never be too late again!
• Wikipedia's Manic Main Page: The famous open reference site goes a bit batty today. Take a look at the 'On this day...' section in particular.
• A whole lot more...

N.B: I'm also a mite suspicious about Google's new 'Google Weblogs' feature, as mentioned on Blogger Buzz. Can anyone shed any light on this?

Duck race photos

Yet more photos from me. These are some I took at the annual duck race. For the uninitiated, a duck race works as follows:

1. Take a load of rubber ducks.
2. Bet on which duck will win.
3. Chuck the ducks in a river.
4. Note which ones reach the finish first.
5. Fish them all out again.
6. Award prizes.
7. Go home.

But I digress. On with the pictures! A big pile of ducks. Top of the heap. The stragglers.

Flippin' Eck!

Opened my blind a few minutes ago and the countryside is covered in snow! What is this place coming to? Snowfalls in March? On Easter Sunday? Even I can't help thinking that someone is having a laugh. Quite what bearing this might have on our Easter Egg Hunt I don't know. Old dullard that I am, I will only be joint organising this year's festivities, but whether we really want our sole contestant scrabbling around in the snow trying to find a clue is rather doubtful. So indoors it may have to be.

I read by means of the BBC News RSS feed that the situation is so bad as to merit a weather warning, which is more than slightly unnerving. I also read that a seaside hotel has caught on fire, bishops are getting a little hot under the dog-collar about embryo research and that Staffordshire police are spoilt for choice with five different murder suspects from whom to take their pick. The mind boggles.

Damned statistics!

The question of statistics is, without question, an oft visited topic, but what sort of bearing does that really have on a rural teenage schoolboy? A very good question, and the blunt answer is 'The wrong sort'. At the very moment I write this, I am surrounded by people who, on a daily basis, can and will spout out, argue over and compare numbers and facts containing not the slightest meaning to the uninitiated.

Let us start with probably the most recent and divisive statistical craze to hit us around here, that of the trading cards called 'Match Attacks'. The basic premise of these is based, not altogether surprisingly, around football. Each card depicts a footballer and quotes their estimated 'Attack' and 'Defence', the calculation of which is beyond me. I would put the entire number of different players available somewhere in the quadrillions, and the number grows alarmingly. As one might suspect, they can also be traded for other cards, either to get some better numbers or just to build one's collection. There is, apparently an associated game on top of all this, but I am unable to say very much about it.

But, as I mentioned earlier, the worst part is that the very mention of the words 'Match Attack' will cause an explosively wide range of reactions. Some love it and play it with wild abandon, others despise it with a passion. So much so, in fact, that there exists an 'Anti Match Attack League' that actively encourages the destruction of cards. Being a stalwart fence-sitter it doesn't really bother me either way, although if I could turn a corner just once and fail to find a single card awaiting me then it would probably please me quite a lot.

Even worse than these on the 'my pointless number is bigger than yours' front, however, are those maddening and almost unbelievably lucrative trading card and media franchises such as Pokemon and Yu-Gi-Oh. I quote for you here an imaginary, but not entirely implausible, conversation between two fans: "Hi! Do you play Me-No-Good?" "Why yes, as a matter of fact. Fancy a game?" "Of course! You start." "Right. I'll play Mr Bun the Baker. That's two Basic Paperclips to me." "Curse you! Now it's my turn..." [Some time later] "Ha! My Triple-Conjoined Tyrannosaur beats your Mega Sardine of Doom! 9847583758 Bing-Bong points!" "You *@%$£^~!" "Just surrender now, and avoid a slow and painful defeat!" "I'm not done yet! Take a look at my Double Pikachu with added Wham-Wham!" "Flipping ^*%@!!" "Plus that means I can play my Inverse Riffle-Shuffle, gaining me an extra 13842237834467 Bing-Bong Points and a Quadruple Cheese Grater! I win!" "Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!" "Well, there we are then. Good game, eh, old chap?" "Yes, old man. Splendid."

You see what I mean by 'pointless numbers'? Who would have thought it was possible to gain so much joy from such a premise?

Dragon Building for Dummies

For a little while, I had wondered what I was going to talk about. And then,
it occurred to me:

Dragon tails!

No, I'm not mad. Or rather I am usually, but not this time. No, I'm going to
tell you how to make the tails of dragons, the perfect props for any play (so
long as it involves chopping the extremities of large fictional lizards).

You will need:
Lots of chicken wire
Lots of patience
Lots of Mod-Roc

N.B: Mod-Roc is a cotton mesh coated in a substance that, when wetted and
left to dry, works just like plaster of Paris. It's a lot easier to use than
the normal stuff, because it comes in huge long sheets. And it's brilliant.

What to do:
1. Take a fair amount of chicken wire and roll it into a cone or tail shape.
2. Secure the shape by snipping the wire and twisting it around itself.
3. Cut off a piece of Mod-Roc in a size that suits your needs.
4. Stick your Mod-Roc onto the chicken wire where you want it.
5. At the edges of your piece of Mod-Roc, tuck it into the chicken wire so it
doesn't dangle down too badly.
6. Repeat steps 3-5 until the top part of the chicken wire is finished.
7. Turn over when dry.
8. Repeat 3-5 yet again on bottom part until finished.
9. Over the open end of the cone, drape more pieces of wet Mod-Roc.
10. When dry, completely cover open end.
11. Paint when completely dried.

Optionally, you can also glue on cardboard spines before painting and put
Mod-Roc on these, too.

So if you ever need the tail chopping off a dragon, you know what to do!

Out and about with a camera

Some pictures taken around the place, largely near my house. I hope you like them. Welford church, a round-tower one. These are fairly rare, or so I am told. Some snowdrops in Welford park. The place is covered in them. Daffodils at my school, in the garden.

Music matters

No more Mr. Nice-Guy*, time to air some opinions!
Recently, a thought trickled (that being about their maximum speed as far as
my brain is concerned) from the deepest recesses of my mind to what - in a
completely non anatomical way - could be called the forefront of my
consciousness. It could roughly be described as follows: I am interested in
music.
Pretty dull, you may think, and I would be very much inclined to agree with
you on that point. But up until now I hadn't really noticed it. I'd hear
something on the radio, and I'd think: 'Hmm, nice music' or 'Hmm, not so
nice, music'; and that was about it. But actually, I actively enjoy
listening. Or at least, sometimes I do. For instance, these are what might
put me off.

1. 'Choo' - or something of that ilk, replacing 'you'.
2. Random key changes, although usually these just make me groan a little.
3. Pathetic scansion in lyrics.
4. Not even singing.
5. lots more, sadly...

You know what I'm grasping at? You're doing better than most people I talk
to.

* If I ever was what you might call 'Mr. Nice-Guy', that is.

Part Nine: May contain spirits

“So,” the medium sneered nastily, “we have a murderer do we?” It was a little later that morning and Mr. Torrall seemed to be regretting his choice of the cheapest medium available. She was a wizened old crone of at least 150, the perfect spiritual-contactor stereotype, but that only unsettled the staff further. As far as they were concerned, superstition was for those too dim to understand science. Mr. Torrall, however, seemed perfectly capable of handling the situation himself. “Yes, that’s right,” he said slowly and patronisingly. “We’d like you to work out who it is.” “I know that, fool!” she snapped. “Age isn’t everything, you know! Now let me see…” There was a long pause. “Well?” said Mr. Torrall, impatiently twirling his moustache. “The killer has facial hair,” Mr. Torrall adjusted his tweed jacket; “is well suited,” Mr. Torrall wiped the sweat off his balding head, “has a receding hairline…” Suddenly, Mr. Torrall sprang up. “Wait a minute,” he cried in indignation, “that’s me!” “Yes,” the medium shrieked, rising from her seat as well, “murderer!” “But it was my half day!” Mr. Torrall protested. “I was out fishing!” “Exactly!” shrieked the medium again. “Murderer!” “No, you don’t understand,” broke in the headmaster, feeling it was his job to intervene. “We want someone who murders people, not fish!” “You must be specific in what you require from the spirits!” she replied, looking offended. “No, there are no ‘people-murderers’ here. But there is something strong, something that drowns out all other spiritual voices.” “What is it?” said the head nervously, despite his intuition. “I cannot tell,” she replied, concentrating hard. “It is all around us, like a great spiritual screaming!” The head, who had had quite enough of this mumbo-jumbo, decided he ought to make a move. “Well, thank you very much,” he said hastily, a hint of uneasiness in his voice. “We’ll remember you if we ever need some more ‘guidance from the spirits’,” he added, enunciating the inverted commas to perfection. The medium scowled briefly, and then swept out of the room. Silently, so as not to offend Mr. Torrall, the staff breathed a collective sigh of relief. This was in fact unnecessary, as Mr. Torrall was already very much offended and had gone off the idea of mediums altogether.